Torn: Views of Perspective
by Kerrison
Summary: Post-ep for "Aliyah" - A Series of One-shots as the team struggles with Ziva's departure. Formerly named "Just a Writer" when this was just a one-chapter endeavor. -Now Complete-
1. Just a Writer

McGee flipped his phone shut with a large sigh.

_I might just have to stop answering the phone,_ Tim thought to himself.

He hated to admit it, but Tim loved order. He despised a phone that went unanswered if there was someone around to stop the ringing.

And that's why he answered every time she called. The caller ID reading Lyndi Crawshaw didn't stop him from picking up the phone.

It did, however, make his voice have a tinge of annoyance when he spoke.

No, he didn't have the next chapter written.

No, he didn't have any idea for plot.

No, he wasn't able to tell her what she could release as a sneak-peek for his fans.

Pretty much, the conversation was a big pile of disappointment and frustration for them both.

No matter how often Tim sat down to write, he couldn't get his fingers to move across the keys and produce anything that made sense.

The clacking of his typewriter, which usually created a sense of peace and let him 'get in the grove' of writing, only grated on his nerves.

The sound was too much like the staccato rapid fire of a gun.

And it made Tim wince.

No longer was the typewriter a place where his words brought forth a story about his coworkers, his adventures on the cases, the daily people he observed at the coffee shop and in the park.

Now, the typewriter made him remember the sound of Ziva at the firing range that day. Gunfire was the sound he would associate with his last few moments with her.

After they had returned from the hospital, she grabbed her sig and had headed to the firing range to 'let off some steam' as she had put it.

Tim, truly worried about his teammate, went along for company. Of course he hadn't said that; instead he had lied, stating he had to do his monthly marksmanship qualifications soon, and he needed the practice.

If Ziva had known it was untrue, she certainly didn't let on.

She had unloaded a clip into the target quicker than Tim had been able to put on his protective ear-wear and glasses. And, as always, her marks were set to kill.

Out of the corner of his eye, Tim had noticed her hands tremble as she set her gun down and reached for another clip to reload. She hit the button to pull the target in and he watched as she took a deep breath, her shoulders lifting and dropping, and he barely caught the motion as her lip quivered.

It was an interesting experience, watching one of your strongest co-workers, walk the very fine line between bottling it up and losing it.

Being who he was, his instinct was to reach out, rest a brotherly hand on her shoulder and ask if she was 'ok.'

But, while he was certainly caring, Tim wasn't stupid.

He knew that a hand on her shoulder would earn him a dislocated shoulder and sling to match Tony's.

Well-intended or otherwise, questioning Ziva's strength and fortitude was just begging for a bruisin'.

Instead, he merely squeezed off a round, ensuring he was as accurate as possible.

And he tried very hard to not be disappointed when he wasn't nearly as accurate in his one shot, as Ziva had been in her entire clip.

She had turned her head and regarded him carefully. "You should spend some more time down here, McGee," she had offered, her voice smoother than he expected.

He had shrugged. "Maybe we should come regularly- you can show me some stuff?" he had said casually.

Ziva had nodded and for a moment, while her curly hair bounced softly on her shoulders, Tim understood why Tony had an unspoken fascination with their Mossad partner. She was so many things rolled up in such a discrete package. "Perhaps we could do that," she had said evenly. "How does Monday sound?"

Tim had nodded and grinned before they both turned back to their new targets. She proceeded to unload another clip with frightening accuracy while he focused on each shot. Quality over quantity.

He never said that Monday was the day he forced himself to buckle down and write. He never said that if he didn't budget time at the beginning of the week to work on his book, then he wouldn't get anything written all week. He had to start the week with some plot flowing out of his fingers and across his typewriter keys, or else he would have nothing to mull over during down time at work. Monday was the day where he gave himself story-fodder to ponder the rest of the week.

He never said "Sorry, my Monday's are taken."

McGee was many things but stupid was not one of them.

He saw his friend, someone he respected, hurting. He saw an opportunity to learn from someone he admired. He saw his co-worker struggling to find where she currently stood on her team.

And he saw an opportunity to make her feel needed – because she was. But sometimes actions spoke louder than words.

And Tim's action was to give up his Monday night typewriter-date and turn that night over to Ziva and the firing range.

Except they had never made it to a single session.

One minute they were in the firing range, putting holes in targets. The next minute, half his team was on a flight overseas.

And now, weeks after she failed to return with Gibbs and Tony, he sat at his typewriter on Monday night.

And he had nothing to write about.

He had no latest adventure of L.J Tibbs. Nothing about Tibbs' romance with the Lieutenant Commander. Nothing about Pimmy Jalmer's latest clandestine X-rated rendezvous in autopsy with meeting with Agent Lou, the legal council.

He had tried to write about Agent Tommy, usually a source of amusing plot developments.

But without Agent Lisa, Agent Tommy was dull, lifeless, and somewhat mean.

He tried to create adventures for Agent Lisa, but without Ziva, Tim had no inspiration.

His family had fallen apart.

Her desk sat empty at work, Gibbs refusing to replace her "just yet," though no one knew when "just yet" would end for Gibbs.

Tony barely cracked a joke anymore. He had tried, the first week, to keep up appearances. He had kept his cell phone on the his desk during down-time, his eyes trained on it as if willing it to ring. Nothing. And now he was obviously bitter.

Today he had even mouthed-off to Gibbs.

And, if Gibbs had not been equally heart-broken at Ziva's not calling, he may have head-slapped Tony into the next century. Instead, they shared a look across the bull-pen aisle, filled with equal parts understanding, hurt, and frustration.

And while Tim had not been included in the moment, he had understood the entire non-verbal exchange.

They missed her. All of them.

Damnit, even Abby was mourning Ziva's resignation in her own unique way. Pigtails had come down for a week out of respect for the missing team member. And the photos that had been on the wall during Tony and Ziva's stay in LA had come back up. Abby refused to believe that Ziva was gone permanently.

It was almost a week after Gibbs and Tony had returned without Ziva when Abby had privately told Tim that something didn't "feel right." In her spare time, she had set up tracing software on Ziva's cell phone and financial accounts - both domestic and foreign. Anything that came across, Abby would know about.

So far, nothing. And that's what worried Abby the most. She had said "Its like Ziva disappeared off the face of the world the minute she returned to Mossad. I'm worried, Timmy."

And it was that comment that nagged at Tim's mind. It was those words that continued to run through is brain in place of where he normally had plot-devices every Monday.

This Monday, he sat in front of his typewriter, his pipe in his hands. He flipped the pipe. Over. And over. He turned the wood, he rubbed it with his thumb. He mulled Abby's words, unable to chase them out of his mind.

Tim was just as worried as Abby.

But he wasn't Gibbs. He wasn't Tony. He wasn't the type to bust down doors and go in with guns blaring.

He was just a writer.

Well, Agent by day, writer at night, anyway.

But this wasn't something he could write his way out of.

She wasn't Agent Lisa. She was Ziva. She was real.

And something was wrong.


	2. Brightness

She had a delicate curve to her, neither pronounced nor repressed.

Much like her namesake.

She had a firm, hardy exterior that would weather well and be nearly impossible to breach. But inside, she was gentle and comfortable and very unique.

Much like her namesake.

It was an interesting process that he went through; the trip to the lumber mill was always rather mundane.

He ran his hands across the planks of wood, feeling for knots, weaknesses and warping that would make the bows of the hull twist as he worked them.

For the Jenny, he had painstakingly picked out every piece individually, trying to offer the project more time than he had been able to offer Jenny. For the Shannon and the Kelly, he knew that no matter what wood he purchased or how much effort he put into it, the wood and boats would never be as beautiful as his family but he still made many trips to the lumber mill and spent many hours looking for the best pieces.

This boat, however, was different.

His friend Hank, who ran the lumber yard, had saved him some wood this time. Various other customers had over-ordered or discarded perfectly good pieces of wood and when it stacked up, Hank had placed a simple call to Gibbs and held the wood in the back until Gibbs had shown up with his old truck.

As he had worked the cast-off wood into the shape that would create a boat, he realized that much like its namesake, this boat was a foundling. Its original destiny had changed – no longer would the timber be molded into a strong back-deck on a home, or into a porch swing.

Now its purpose was to play a role in Gibbs' life.

Much like the boat's namesake.

He molded the wood with careful strokes of the chisel. He nailed the planks into the bows of the hull, letting the shape of the wood dictate the shape of the boat. He sanded carefully- always with the grain.

And he stained the wood, a gentle stain with ebony highlights on the darker grains of wood.

He tried, brush in hand, to paint her name on the side, has he had done for all the women in his life who had left – all the women he honored with a boat.

But his hand had shook slightly and he felt himself reach for the bourbon on the counter, swiftly downing a swig before he made a second attempt to paint the simple word on the side.

_Brightness_

He never set brush to wood; he couldn't do it.

Her name meant "Brilliance" and "Brightness" in Hebrew.

And it was true.

The office had lost its spark.

The days seemed longer without her fire, her drive, her wit and sparkle; the team seemed more dull. They were all crushed and hurt and depressed; and they each turned inward in their attempt to deal with her loss.

But she wasn't gone; not really.

She just wasn't with them anymore.

And maybe that's why it hurt all the more.

She was out there somewhere, but not with them.

Gibbs had set his brush down and capped the paint and varnish before standing and feeling the muscles stretch in his back, having become accustomed to his crouched position at the boat's starboard.

He regarded the boat with a critical eye before he felt his gaze narrow and his determined visage slide into place.

Damned if he'd put her name on this boat – almost as if that would make her absence as true and permanent as when he painted Jenny's name, Shannon's name and Kelly's name.

His family had been torn apart. And no matter how much Tony beat himself up over it, it _wasn't _his fault. No matter how much Tim tried, he couldn't write them out of this one. And for all of Ducky's blathering about Mossad traditions and customs, the result was the same.

His family had been torn apart.


	3. Bogart & Bacall

He always envisioned her at fifty with gentle gray streaks in her hair.

He always envisioned her face with gentle wrinkles. He figured that by fifty, he would have taught her to laugh enough that she would have earned some laugh lines around her mouth and soft crows feet from years of smiling at his wit.

He knew that no matter what he tried, the years of struggle in her life would never let the small furrows in her brow completely vanish – yet he had hoped that her life would have eased enough that the furrows wouldn't have deepened.

He figured that by the time she was fifty, he'd know how to Salsa and he'd have taught her The Hustle.

He figured that they'd go for evening jogs until their knees just were too old to take the abuse anymore. And then, they'd downgrade to evening strolls.

At some point in imagining his future, they had gone from merely meeting for lunch once a week to catch up on life, to meeting once a day for lunch, to waking up together.

He couldn't pin down when that transition happened.

But he knew that his future made more sense when he envisioned her in it as a permanent fixture.

It was a little game he played with himself to pass the time, trying to picture his perfect future.

When he was with Jeanne, it had been one of the hardest games he'd ever played.

Granted Jeanne was an Assignment not a Relationship. But playing the future-game helped him stay focused on his role.

He had tried to picture houses with Jeanne and realized that his preferred homey Bungalow with a very Bogart-esque flair would never match with Jeanne's modern-loft design tendencies.

He tried to picture vacations with Jeanne – and realized that it was highly unlikely that the doctor would vacation in Israel, even though that's where his subconscious kept taking him.

Tony had to stop playing when s_he _had kept sneaking into his future with Jeanne. Tony was sure Ziva didn't do it on purpose; it wasn't as if she could invade his psyche at will.

To be more fair, it was that _he _couldn't get _her_ off his mind.

Everywhere he went, there was something that reminded him of her.

And it was like a thousand little knives slicing deeper and deeper with every memory.

A week ago, the team had been drenched to the bone, chasing a suspect through a spring rain shower.

When he had started coughing two days later, Gibbs had given him a wary eye and sent him home to rest.

After his dance with the plague, any signs of even the tiniest cold had everyone on edge, worried about pneumonia and his scared lungs.

He had gone home and reached for the cupboard where she kept the tea-bags for when she visited. His hand instinctively settled around the jar of herbal tea she had given him during his last fight with a cold.

He let out a frustrated sigh when he opened the lid and found enough herbs for only one cup of tea.

With stilted motions he poured the leaves into the strainer has she had shown him and flicked the switch for the tea kettle's burner.

Everywhere.

There was no place he could go where he wouldn't be reminded that tomorrow there would be no coy smile, no friendly jab, no icy glare when he deserved it.

There was no one to help superglue McGee to his desk.

There was no one to roll their eyes at Palmer's eagerness and his obvious transition into a young-Ducky.

There was no one else to chip in for Abby's Caf-Pow fund.

No one else to eat cheese-steaks with, or try out the new Peruvian restaurant in town.

Tony felt his fingers close around the cobalt tea-jar and he felt no desire to stop himself as he hurled the jar against the wall, blue shards of clay flying across his kitchen and a new dent in his wall.

He closed his eyes and dropped his head back in frustration; he hadn't expected her absence to leave such a big hole in his life.

He hadn't expected every day that went by without a call from her to be such a painful reminder of what he'd lost.

He hadn't expected it to hurt so much when it became harder and harder to envision her at fifty with gray streaks in her hair.

Tony looked down at the shards of pottery on the floor of his kitchen.

He felt as if his life was in shards, too, now that she there to be the Yin to his Yang, his Bacall to his Bogart, his... everything.

When did she become his everything?

Did it matter?

He was startled by the low whistle of the tea kettle and he moved to pour the steaming hot water over the leaves she had given him.

And Tony sighed.

His life was in shards.

He had to get her back. _They _had to get her back. The team wasn't the same.

McGee had gone far too long without having something Superglued. It had been weeks since someone had given Tony an icy glare. And Abby was starting to burn a hole in his pocket with all the Caf-Pows she was drinking.

More importantly, he needed to be proven right about the gentle gray streaks he was sure she'd get at fifty.


	4. Like a 90 Degree Monday

The summer breeze ruffled her pig tails as she knocked on the door in front of her.

The door opened and she was greeted by an understanding smile on Tim's face.

"Can't sleep," she said softly, shrugging. He stepped to the side and she didn't hesitate to walk into his apartment and make herself immediately at home.

Losing Kate had been hard for the team, but having someone step in to fill the empty desk almost immediately had all given them a chance to cope and heal without the daily reminder of Kate's absence.

But Gibbs still hadn't hired a new agent for Ziva's position.

And every day, that desk was a loud reminder of her absence on their team.

And everyone noticed.

Abby hadn't slept a full night's sleep since 'her family' returned, one fewer than before.

Her already pale face had grown more so over the last few weeks and she took turns visiting her teammates' houses and spending hours with her favorite men.

But, by far, her favorite insomniac spot was Tim's.

The would end up on his sofa, his arm wrapped around her, and her body snuggled firmly into his – it was the safest place she knew right now and she was able to drift into sleep as he took out her pigtails and played with her hair.

Abby moved through the house, their pattern firmly set from many nights of mutual insomnia.

She set her overnight bag in the corner, out of Tim's way. She dug out her toothbrush and set it on the bookshelf where she could grab it on her way to the restroom in the morning. She would use his shampoo – he didn't mind – and she'd have a silly grin all day as she was constantly reminded that she smelled like Timmy.

Tim leaned himself against the corner of a book shelf and crossed his arms across his chest, watching as she made herself at home.

He didn't mind, not really. He was as lonely and upset as she was about Ziva's departure, they just coped in different ways.

And if he were being perfectly honest, Tim never minded spending time with Abby, regardless of the reason.

He popped in an old Bella Lugosi DVD -one of her favorites- and took his spot on the couch, reaching behind him for the Pillow she liked to lay her head on and he settled that in his lap.

Abby sighed when she turned from the fridge, having put his Orange Juice away having taken a swig, and found him ready to comfort her in the only way he knew how.

This was family. This is what family did for each other. When someone left, when life turned upside down, they provided comfort in their own unique ways.

She looked at him and he met her gaze, offering her a lopsided and knowing grin.

"I know," he said gently, not needing to hear any words.

"Tim," she started.

"I know, Abby," he repeated, interrupting a tirade he had heard many times. "I know its not fair. I know it sucks. I know its not right and I know its not the same without her. Trust me, I know. I get to sit up there and watch as Gibbs and Tony brood all day. I get to take their crap when they get so frustrated that she's not around. Trust me, I know!"

Abby sighed and moved to the couch, settling into his embrace and finding herself relaxing almost instantly.

"I wish I could do something," she said, knowing it wasn't the first time she had voiced the thought. "I wish I could find her and tell her how much we miss her. I wish I could make up for whatever Tony did."

"He shot her boyfriend," Tim reminded her with a wry chuckle.

"I meant outside of that," Abby said. "There was more going on than just that, Tim. You know it."

He sighed. "Yeah. They just..." he stumbled for the right word, frustrated that as a writer he still searched in his daily speech. "They've got to figure out what they are to each other, Abs. Its hard. You remember."

He felt her head nod against the pillow in his lap and he moved to gently tug out her pony tails.

"I remember," she said, lifting her head so he could reach the bottom pony tail. "You're my best friend, Timmy."

"Mine too, Abby," he said, using his fingers to comb out her hair.

"Thanks for never shooting my boyfriend. That would definitely have made things awkward," she said, feeling herself gently unwind as he set up a gentle massage to her scalp.

He chuckled softly. "I can't say that I didn't _want_ to shoot your boyfriend. I just never actually did it."

Abby grinned and her fingers squeezed his nearby knee. "And I appreciate that! Like a cold Caf-Pow on a ninety degree Monday," she said, grinning as she alluded to how much exactly she appreciated the lack of bullet-fire at her various boyfriends.

"Think they'll figure it out, Timmy? Think she'll come home?" she asked after a few moments, the black and white of the tv flickering and casting eerie glows around the room.

"I dunno," he said, reaching over the back of the couch and pulling a blanket over Abby so she could rest comfortably. "But I hope so. I miss her, too."

"Its just not the same without her, Tim. Gibbs misses her. Tony misses her. We miss her. We've gotta get her home. We're entirely dysfunctional without our Ziva!"

Tim sighed, agreeing completely that things had started to disintegrate fairly rapidly now that there was still no word from Ziva, even weeks after her departure.

"We'll figure it out, Abs," he said, stroking her hair away from her face and watching her tired features relax as they slipped towards sleep. "We'll figure it out. We've got to."


	5. Kestrel's Call

There was something she loved about being out doors, about sleeping under the stars, and about eating over an open fire.

There was something peaceful about it that she had never been able to put her finger on.

Tali had loved it, too, but had equally loved days shopping with their mother and getting her hair done, the few times that luxury had been allowed them all.

Ari had enjoyed the wilderness in an entirely different manner, one that made her uneasy even at a young age. He would lurk in the shadows, try to move deftly for the sole purpose of stalking, killing and maiming.

It had always been different for Ziva.

It wasn't about the hunt like it was for Ari.

She never got the feeling where she couldn't wait to get to the comforts of home, like Tali.

She had enjoyed the breeze on her skin. She had enjoyed foraging for berries, for greens, for nuts. She had enjoyed moving in peace with nature, not trying to avoid it or conquer it like her siblings.

She had learned to walk quietly in the forest, not to sneak upon wild game. She had learned because quiet footfalls did not drown out the music of the trees.

She had learned to gather her meals from the land, not pack meals. She had learned because learning what the land had to offer, made you all the more appreciative of its bounty.

Ziva had taken her first swimming lesson in the pool at Mossad headquarters. And she had been a great swimmer – smooth, fluid strokes slicing through the water. But she never really felt free until she dove off that rock and into the lake, swimming for what felt like miles before she finally hit the shallows and turned around and swam back the other way. She was not confined to the rythmic flip-turns of a cement pool. Nature provided her with an almost unending cradle of water, supporting her as she floated through the current.

She had trained with Tali, each working up their stamina at running. Each becoming faster, better paced, with smoother strides. But she had found her niche in the trees and underbrush in Eshkoal. Keeping her footing over roots, pinecones, and rabbit warrens.

She had learned to sleep outside out of necessity. Her father had dropped them all off in the middle of the woods. He had merely said: "Find your way back." It had taken three days before she and Tali had managed to get them all back to town, and then to their father's office again. The look of pride on his face had made her youngerself content. Tali believed that sleeping outside had been a punishment, meant to make them find their way home faster. Ziva had felt the nights outside to be a blessing; the light breeze kissed her cheek goodnight and the stars her only blanket. She had been lullabyed by the calls of the Kestrels circling, huntind dinner and bedding down for the night in the and the crickets had sung her gently into dreams.

It was ironic, really.

She was in the middle of the ocean, and yet water had always been a safe place to her.

She was in a fair amount of pain, to say the least, yet hard work and pain had never frightened her.

She was scavenging for what little crumbs they offered her daily, and yet foraging for food had never been a problem.

What she'd give to have her bonds cut free, and be released into the ocean. She'd float, for hours, she knew. Just feeling the strength of the water cradling her again.

And one day she hoped she'd be able to go for a run in the woods, the sound of birds and crickets making her feel at peace.

She longed for the sun at her back, the breeze in her hair, and the soft crunch of leaf litter under her feet as she hiked the woods.

But that this wasn't a test. Her father hadn't dropped her off on this ship to make her find her way home.

He did not expect her to return.

He did not expect her to find her way out of the woods this time.

She twisted her wrists against her ropes, her raw-skin rubbing against the harsh cording. She felt the bindings budge just a little more today than yesterday. A little more yesterday than the day before.

He did not expect her to find her way out of the woods this time.

But she would.

She would.


End file.
